


Take what's left

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, But the hurt is so much more than the comfort, Cutting, Day 15, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Potions, Shock, Stitches, Suspension, Torture, Unpleasant side effects of said potions, Whumptober 2020, magical healing, severe blood loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: It wasn’t often that Geralt’s hunts went pear shaped. Jaskier knew that the witcher had more years and experience than he liked to let on, so he never expected that one day Geralt would run up against a foe that could best him.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Take what's left

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!

It wasn’t often that Geralt’s hunts went pear shaped. Jaskier knew that the witcher had more years and experience than he liked to let on, so he never expected that one day Geralt would run up against a foe that could best him.

Jaskier’s standing on a table at the inn where he and Geralt are staying, when Geralt — bloody, wet, and covered in something foul — staggers in the door.

“Run! I couldn’t stop them and they’re coming,” Geralt shouts.

Jaskier doesn’t wait to be told twice, shouting at people to run and hurrying to Geralt’s side. “What happened?” 

“It’s not just one or two, there’s a whole pack of barghests,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “Geralt, how many would you say are in a pack?”

Geralt staggers out to the stable and digs through one of Roach’s saddle bags. “Thirty.”

Without pause, Geralt unstoppers a tiny bottle and downs the contents. In moments, Geralt’s veins stand out with dark black streaks, his eyes like empty inkwells. Despite how disconcerting that change always is to Jaskier, Geralt seems more alert, and he turns to Jaskier. “Take Roach. Ride fast and don’t look back.”

Jaskier stammers, his mouth flopping like a landed trout. “Geralt, I might leave temporarily, but I’m coming back.”

Geralt grunts. “Not until daylight.”

And then he’s gone.

*****

Despite Jaskier’s attempts, he doesn’t get back the next day. Roach refuses to set a hoof within five miles of the village, and if Jaskier has learned one single thing it’s that he should always trust Roach. Plus, there’s no good way to get back and out again during daylight if he has to, not without Roach. 

When he does finally return, Jaskier can smell the pyres from more than a mile away. He hopes Geralt is not among the dead, but thirty barghests is a rather improbable feat, even for a witcher. 

As Jaskier draws nearer to town, he can smell the blood and see the places where it’s spilled upon the ground. Most of the dead are gone, reclaimed by the remaining villagers no doubt, but small bits of flesh, pieces too small to bother gathering in the aftermath of such a massacre, litter the road. 

Cautiously, Jaskier rides into town. The townspeople glance at him and while previously many were friendly to his and Geralt’s visit, they now seem cold, even hostile. Jaskier rides on towards the inn, just on the other side of town. 

But there, in the center square, is Geralt. He’s naked, strung up by his wrists, feet barely touching the flagstone beneath.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Jaskier shouts, dismounting.

A man sporting a bandage around his head and carrying a pitchfork steps between Geralt and Jaskier. “He’s the one to blame. Led all those barghests here. Carried off seventy-three of our folk, they did. And now we get ours from his flesh. I wouldn’t get in the way of it if I were you, bard.”

Jaskier takes a moment to compose himself because the words “from his flesh” seem quite possibly bad. “You are an absolute moron, sir. Why would he lead them to you? I don’t think that’s a very sound method of getting paid, and furthermore, I don’t happen to see any barghests lurking about in alleyways this fine morning. I don’t suppose you’d know why they’re all now gone, hmm? It certainly can’t be because he _KILLED THEM ALL!!!!”_

“Jaskier.” 

It’s so quiet that Jaskier almost ignores it, but he turns his head to see Geralt staring at him intently, his yellow eyes the only clear, unsullied thing about him. 

“Geralt?”

“Don’t waste your breath. They’ll only string you up beside me,” he says.

The tone of acceptance in Geralt’s voice is galling. “What do you mean ‘don’t waste my breath’? It’s my breath and I’ll waste it however I want, thank you. And furthermore, I do not find it to be a waste of my time to try to _save your life,_ Geralt. Melitele’s tits, do you not hear the man? They’re going to take _things_ out of your flesh!”

“I heard him,” Geralt answers evenly. “And what are you going to do about it? Watch? I don’t think that’s going to help you write many songs.”

“Write songs? Is that why you think I follow you around?” Jaskier snips. “I think-” the bell tower in the village begins to toll and Jaskier raises his voice. “I think that if I were only interested in ‘writing songs-’” a point Jaskier emphasizes with air quotes, “-then I would have stopped following you years ago. You’re a miserable travel companion and you have the good sense of a lump of coal. I find Roach’s companionship to be-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt growls, calling the bard’s name for the third time in a row, though Jaskier had ignored his previous entreaties.

And suddenly, Jaskier is aware of his surroundings. There are people, many people, surrounding them in the square. Roach has been led off, away from the post where Jaskier tied her when he dismounted. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier replies quietly.

“So good of you to join us, master bard,” the mayor bellows. “You seem dismayed about the plight of your friend, but I assure you that we harbor you no ill will. You seem a pleasant fellow, if a bit… loquacious. Your witcher, on the other hand, owes us a debt that he cannot repay. We will take from him what we can and you can have whatever’s left.”

“‘Whatever’s left?’” Jaskier squawks, and two men behind him grab his arms, preventing him from rushing the mayor. “Whatever’s left damn well ought to be all of him.”

“Tie him up,” the mayor says flippantly, and Jaskier is dragged kicking and screaming to an adjoining post in the square. 

Knowing he’s done in, Jaskier ignores the men binding him to the post. “Geralt-”

“Do you remember what I taught you? About potions?” Geralt says, his face suddenly intense.

Jaskier nods mutely. The mayor is brandishing a large knife and bellowing again, this time to the town’s people. Jaskier pointedly does not look at the man. 

“Good. If I survive this, I’m going to need you to do that,” Geralt warns. 

Jaskier nods, swallowing against the horror the knows awaits. “Yeah, of course, Geralt. Whatever you need.”

Geralt offers a wan smile that fades beneath bruises, dirt, and the many quick healing wounds that litter his body. 

“This is for my husband, may his soul find peace,” a woman says, raising the knife the mayor handed to her.

Jaskier watches her bring the knife in, carving a deep line across Geralt’s chest. The witcher grits his teeth, his breath rushing in and out like a horse’s breath after a hard run. She promptly hands the knife off to the next person in line and Geralt closes his eyes. Something about that makes Jaskier’s chest ache — Geralt, always unflinching even in the most dire situations, closing his eyes to avoid the truth of what’s coming. It makes Jaskier feel so much more helpless than being tied to a post ever did.

The man slices Geralt’s face in a quick slash. “For my daughters.”

The woman who takes the knife next is pregnant to bursting. Her hand shakes while she holds the blade, her other hand on her belly. “For my husband.” Another cut across the chest. “And for my unborn child who will never know their father.” This time a slash down his ribs. 

A shout of pain rips from Geralt’s throat and he thrashes against his bonds. Her eyes wide with fear, as though Geralt could somehow get free and harm her, the woman drops the knife and scurries away. 

One of the men minding the process punches Geralt in the stomach, twice in quick succession. “Behave,” he threatens, as though the torture weren’t enough incentive, as though Geralt could reasonably refrain from screaming when tortured.

Blood drips steadily to the flagstones beneath Geralt’s feet, his toes rubbing little patterns in the pool as he dangles. More people come — for their mother, their son, their fiance, their eldery neighbor — and cut after cut is carved into Geralt’s flesh. He screams, a deep bellow that reminds Jaskier of an injured bull, but despite it, despite the tears that run down Geralt’s face and mix with the pool of blood, no one seems to care. No one even hesitates. 

Someone even stabs Geralt in the dick at one point. He vomits on her and the men beat him until his head lolls to the side. Jaskier screams at them — calls them names, begs them to stop, begs Geralt to open his eyes. The villagers don’t even look at Jaskier. It’s like he’s not even there except to watch. 

With each new cut, Jaskier tugs against the ropes. He can feel his skin rubbing raw and bruising, but he keeps pulling as though getting free would do either of them any good. Long before Geralt truly loses his composure, Jaskier is sobbing, openly weeping at the utter horror. That humans call themselves the righteous ones, condemning beasts and witchers to torture and murder, is the most incredible irony of Jaskier’s life. 

Eventually, Jaskier’s knees give out and he slumps in his bonds, only to be held in place. The men, women, and children come and go, Geralt screaming with each new cut, until he’s lost too much blood to stay present. Jaskier sees his bright yellow eyes glaze over, and while Geralt flinches with each new assault, his voice is barely audible.

The whole bloody affair seems to go on for hours, though by the tolling of the bell tower it’s been an hour and a half. Jaskier can finally see the end of the line. The crowd is dispersing and Geralt is still alive. Jaskier dares to hope that he might yet have something of the witcher to salvage. 

“For my family!” the woman screams. Jaskier lunges before he fully registers what she’s about to do, but he can’t stop her as she buries the knife all the way to the hilt in Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt’s eyes open wide and his mouth gapes, blood dripping from his lips. Jaskier can hear Geralt’s already labored breathing begin to wheeze. The guards pull her away and rip the knife from Geralt’s chest, handing it to the next person.

With the cuts that follow, Geralt seems more aware than before. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the pain, but Jaskier knows he’s present. But it’s not the cuts that have most of Geralt’s attention — the way his breathing slowly grows faster, shallower. Jaskier can hear the wetness of Geralt’s breathing from ten feet away and when Geralt coughs, writhing in pain from the effort, he spits out a mouthful of blood. 

He’s drowning, and Jaskier knows that there’s not much time left before no potion in the world can restore health to Geralt. There are only six people left. Six. Jaskier prays to every deity whose name he’s ever encountered that they hurry the fuck up with their sick games so that Jaskier can get on with saving Geralt. 

Jaskier watches, waiting for the end, each new cut seared forever into his mind. And then, though it seemed like it would never happen, it’s over. 

“Keep your word!” Jaskier screams. “Let me go and give me what’s left!!”

Behind him, Jaskier can’t see and he refuses to take his eyes off of Geralt to turn around, someone begins untying him. As soon as the ropes are loose, Jaskier practically climbs out of the loops and rushes forward to Geralt, though not quite fast enough to catch him and he drops limply to the flagstones below as he’s cut down from the posts.

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt. “Fuck. Shit. Geralt.” He wants to touch him, to offer some comfort or reassurance, but there’s almost nowhere untouched, nowhere that won’t add to the agony.

Geralt’s lips move silently, his breath grating wetly. Jaskier cocks his head, trying to hear or lip read. 

_Potion._

Shit. _Shit._ Of course. 

“Where’s the horse?” Jaskier demands of the men who remain, watching the two of them like they’re a side show. They look at one another in confusion. “The horse. The one I rode in on. Are you dense? Get me the fucking horse!!!”

The men appear startled at the ferocity with which Jaskier shouts, but two of them amble off ostensibly in search of Roach. 

“Hang in there, Geralt. Just another few minutes,” Jaskier promises. The knees of his trousers are soaked through with blood and his hands are already slick as he holds Geralt’s hand in his own. 

From across the square, Roach shorts and whinnies, and Jaskier can hear her shoes stamping angrily on the stone pavers. 

“Roach!” Jaskier calls, and he whistles for her. A moment later, there’s shouting and the sound of hooves clacking against stone as she rushes to Geralt’s location. Jaskier can tell she’s agitated — the smell of blood is thick enough that Jaskier’s stomach turns, but for a horse with a much better sense of smell he knows it must be suffocating. But ever-loyal, she stands there, snorting and stamping her feet while Jaskier rustles through the saddlebags. Finally, wrapped in cloth in a small pouch inside one of the bags, is what Jaskier needs. 

There are two small vials, neatly tied and wrapped together, and Jaskier uncorks them carefully. He kneels and puts his hand under the back of Geralt’s head, tilting him up slightly. 

“Drink it all,” Jaskier says softly. 

The first drops on Geralt’s tongue make him turn his head away, and Jaskier smells the vile stench of White Raffard’s Decoction mixing with the cleaner odor of Seal. “It’ll help, Geralt. Easy, easy,” Jaskier soothes. Geralt’s so weak that all Jaskier has to do is gently turn his head back and hold him steady with his fingers. 

Drop by drop, so as not to lose any to Geralt closing his mouth or turning away, Jaskier pours the potions into Geralt’s mouth. Then he sets the empty vials aside and takes Geralt’s hand in his again. Jaskier knows there won’t be much waiting. Either the potions will work and Geralt will recover enough not to die here and now, or it won’t because he’s too far gone and the toxicity of White Raffard’s simply does him in. Either way, Jaskier will wait because Geralt needs him.

Behind them the men murmur interestedly. 

“Come on, come on. You’re stronger than this, Geralt. Come on, you can’t die on me,” Jaskier pleads, tears dripping off his chin. The drops land on Geralt’s skin, rolling down leaving little pink trails in their wake. 

Then, without warning, Geralt’s entire body spasms, his back arching and twisting. His muscles strain and his veins stand out a hideous blue-green, but his eyes glaze over entirely, totally white save for the faint yellow outline out his irises. 

Jaskier watches in horror. Geralt had once told him of the effects of White Raffard’s decoction but words failed to convey the reality of it. Despite the sure signs of the potions’ effectiveness, Jaskier doesn’t feel relief. 

The spasms come in waves, twisting Geralt this way and that. Jaskier can practically see the full effect of it hit Geralt when his whole body bows up from the ground, resting on just the crown of his head and his heels. His hand, where Geralt still grips it though he could have chosen to let go, feels like it’s being slowly crushed. Jaskier contemplates trying to pry his hand free as he feels the bones begin to bend, close to snapping, but before he can act Geralt collapses to the ground, hacking and coughing up mouthfuls of blood, blood that was previously drowning him. It’s awful to watch but the sound of Geralt’s breathing eases immediately and his chest rises and falls more fully. Jaskier waits with him, holding his hand as Geralt rides out the spasms until they diminish into little twitches. 

“Geralt, we need to get you cleaned up and get out of here. I’ll be right back,” Jaskier promises. He gives Geralt’s hand one last squeeze and then darts off across the square to the well. Quickly, he draws up a bucket of water and brings it over to Geralt. “I’ve got to wash you off. It’s a bit cold.”

Jaskier pours the water over the length of Geralt’s body in a steady stream washing away blood and debris. Geralt gasps, the cold shocking him, and manages to scramble onto his elbows.

“Woah, easy. Geralt, I’m trying to get you washed off. I need to see your injuries. You’re alright,” Jaskier tells him. 

As it turns out, seeing Geralt’s injuries without the ghastly cover of blood isn’t particularly reassuring. Yes, some of the smaller wounds are gone entirely and many of the larger ones are much more shallow, yet he still looks like he’s fallen through a series of plate glass windows. Jaskier knows that pants are a lost cause, he could never get those obscenely tight leather britches over Geralt’s legs in this state. Sadly, that means that riding is going to be a special sort of hell but after everything else today, Jaskier isn’t sure that it matters.

He sets the bucket aside and kneels down next to Geralt again. “Can you stand? I’ve got a blanket to wrap you in.”

Geralt nods weakly and with Jaskier’s help pulls himself up to sit. A few clicks with Jaskier’s tongue, and Roach comes up and kneels next to Geralt. Between the two of them, they manage to haul Geralt into the saddle, and Jaskier carefully wraps him in a blanket, though it only really serves to cover his shoulders and back. 

Once Geralt is semi-stable, Roach stands and then Jaskier climbs up behind him, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s waist to hold him up. Then slowly but surely, Roach leads them out of town on the road they came in on two days before.

*****

They make camp several miles from town in a clearing far enough removed from the main road that they’ll hopefully go unnoticed. Geralt lies in a heap, covered by blankets but still shaking despite the warm spring sun. Jaskier flits around, going through all the motions that Geralt usually does while they live on the road. But after a time, there is no more kindling to gather, no more food to hunt, no more stones to pick from Roach’s hooves, and Jaskier has to settle and tend to Geralt.

“Do you need anything?” Jaskier asks, picking at his nails. There’s blood under them, there’s blood on fucking everything he’s wearing, and Jaskier just wants it off.

“Stitches,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier startles and looks up. “Did I hear that right? Did you say ‘stitches?’ Having you lost your marbles, Geralt?”

“I’m healing too slowly. There’s too much damage. The wounds won’t close right without stitches.”

Jaskier takes in Geralt’s overall state. He’s pale, much more pale that Jaskier realized was even possible for the already pale witcher, and he’s clearly in some sort of shock, what with all the shaking. But Jaskier realizes that Geralt is right, because save for the work of the potions, his wounds haven’t closed any farther which is very atypical indeed. 

Jaskier sniffles and wipes at the fresh tears in his eyes. Even though he’s sewed up Geralt many times before, he doesn’t want to do this. But any protestations on his part are escapism, and Jaskier knows that. 

“Alright, Geralt. I’ll get the supplies,” Jaskier concedes.

Inside one of the saddlebags is a pouch with little spools of silk thread and two fine honed metal needles. Jaskier knows the material to be high quality because he bought the kit three years ago to replace Geralt’s hemp thread and bone needles. The small pockets of infection around each stitch and the ease with which the bone needles broke when being forced through Geralt’s thick skin, made the purchase a smart one. Opening the pouch, Jaskier can see now that Geralt has made use of the gift and replaced one of the spools with another — also silk. Jaskier smiles to think of Geralt finally learning to treat himself, though finer suture material is hardly the sort of luxury he was hoping Geralt might partake of.

Tools in hand, Jaskier returns to Geralt’s side and sits. “There’s not enough here to close everything, and even if there were, it would take hours, long past nightfall. Which ones are most important?” 

Beneath the blanket Geralt’s hand moves weakly and Jaskier removes the blanket, setting it aside. “Here and here,” Geralt says, pointing first to a gash across his abdomen that’s still laid open so far that only a fine layer of viscera holds Geralt’s entrails in place, and then to a deep wound on his right thigh that traverses the length of it from hip to knee.

“Right, then,” Jaskier says to himself and gets to work.

Years of playing the lute have given Jaskier finger strength and dexterity that make the task of suturing Geralt much easier. The little loops of silk line up neatly on Geralt’s skin, perfect tension and spacing for each one. But despite the years of practice Jaskier has with this particular task on this particular witcher, he finds that he can’t look Geralt in the face this time. There are no jokes to be made, no humorous songs to be sung, because Geralt shakes harder with each passing minute, his breath coming faster and rougher the longer it takes. 

Once those two particular wounds are closed, Jaskier moves on to others — a series of gashes across Geralt’s chest dealt by a woman who lost all six of her children, a deep semi-circular wound on the back of Geralt’s left calf from a child no older than six who had lost both her parents, the slashes around Geralt’s neck that weren’t particularly deep but nevertheless concerning given their proximity to Geralt’s veins and arteries. By the time Jaskier runs out of thread, his hands are shaking in time with Geralt’s. 

It’s something Jaskier’s never seen before and never even thought possible — Geralt’s crying. It’s not like the tears of pain that trickled down his face while he was being tortured because there is no one who doesn’t cry when they’re tortured. Instead, this is an outright sob, complete with a snotty nose and his chest heaving from the force of his despair. 

Jaskier carefully puts the needles and empty spools back in the leather pouch and lies down next to Geralt, taking both of Geralt’s hands in his own and holding them tight to his chest. “I’m here, Geralt. I’m here.”

And for all of Jaskier’s verbosity, he has no idea what more he can say or do. They lie there together, Jaskier’s hands never leaving Geralt’s, never leaving him alone until they both sleep, exhausted under the weight of their pains.


End file.
